Wicked Game
by VolturiSecretarialServices
Summary: It was unlucky accident that Hermione came to Volterra. Even worse luck that she took the doomed tour. Aro Volturi doesn't mind at all. AU/EWE, Aro/Hermione. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Twilight, and am not making money from this.

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The tour is a sham from beginning to end, although the antiques are amazing. Hermione begins to notice, half-way through (her suspicion dawning with what is, later, embarrassing slowness) how the guide, Heidi, only mentions a couple of pieces in each room, and that often the dates are wrong.

_Does she not know? Or does she not care?_

It's not surprising to Hermione is that the tour group doesn't seem to mind. After all, most people are fairly unobservant creatures. Still, it is a little odd, how entranced they are by the woman, how they obey her every whim without question.

Maybe it's the power of sex appeal, that thing that Ron had claimed she could have in spades, if only she'd ever bothered to ascribe it the same value as reading.

As if.

Now, though, looking at how the group is staring at Heidi, Hermione wonders if she should have employed a less violent response to Ronald's observation.

But no. That's not quite right. Despite what certain gingers believed, Hermione recognizes physical attraction—has spent time with Fleur in public, seen the way grown, married men react to the part-veela woman.

This is something else. Something … _more_. Hermione's gaze sharpens on the guide as she ponders what it could be.

There's indifference in the set of Heidi's shoulders, Hermione notices: a swagger. An arrogance in the tilt of the guide's chin as she regards at the tourists trailing her like ducklings.

It's almost predatory.

She tries to put it out of her mind. The war left her with some lingering paranoia. Now, she's on holiday and, as such, she should just enjoy herself. Despite the terrible tour.

And the fortress is astounding. The paintings are all museum quality, masterpieces she doesn't recognize, although she does know the styles, and thinks she may know the artists. She longs to ask someone about them. Not Heidi.

The tour will be over soon, which is both a blessing and a tragedy, for then Hermione will have to leave this place, even as exiting will calm her nerves. She's already craving the fresh air of the Piazza dei Priori; Can picture herself breathing it in and being relieved.

For as each step progresses, as each random object is indifferently pointed to, Hermione can no longer ignore her sense that there is something strange about this tour into the bowels of a fortress. Something wrong.

She thinks of fading into the background, of popping into an alcove and disapparating. But she stops herself. Giving into the paranoia only feeds more of it later. This is the muggle world, and in that world, she is in the middle of a large group of tourists. What could be safer?

And yet. _Yet _…

They've entered the final part of the tour, according to Heidi—the throne room. Behind them, two huge, carved wooden doors thud heavily into place, echoing in the cavernous, stone-and-marble chamber.

Looking around, Hermione remembers, finally, why she should always listen to her instincts.

Because there can be no further doubt, no more issue of PTSD or war-trauma paranoia. Their small, human group is surrounded by vampires.

They are beautiful. They are pale. And they're all utterly still, with black cavernous eyes.

Hungry eyes.

Hermione feels her wand fall into a sweat-slick, shaking hand, and presses herself up against the wall of the chamber. As her back hits the smooth stone, she casts a disillusionment spell, then a shield. Silences herself so they will not hear her ragged breathing, her whimpers. Her traitorous, living heartbeat.

She pushes against the marble—cold, so cold—with her body and shivers.

Around her, screams echo. Pandemonium reigns.

*/*/*

A/N: Should I continue? No idea where I'm going (not that that's ever stopped me), but this is an idea I've had for a while, Hermione in Volterra. I have a bit of a mini-obsession with the Volturi, particularly Aro, so it's more or less a given that if I continue they'll, and he'll, feature prominently.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer at Ch 1 applies for every chapter following.

A/N at end.

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Hermione's waking is startling and sudden. All at once there is light and sound when she hadn't realized that they were missing.

She jerks upright. There's so much _wrongness _that it takes her a few moments to categorize it all.

The first thing is: she's not in the same place. She'd been in that huge stone chamber … there'd been screaming, people running, and knowing very well that she could never hope to defeat those many vampires, she'd hid … _didn't_ she?

Hermione _thinks _she did. But now she is here.

She used to have terrible nightmares after the war, some so realistic that they lingered for hours afterward. This almost feels like that.

Almost. But the details were too clear, the subject of the nightmare (vampires eating tourists), too random and unexpected.

No, she decides, it wasn't a dream. This can only mean that she has been moved.

But why?

Now, she is reclining on a fainting couch. It's upholstered in supple leather the color of fresh butter. The color of the couch matches the color of the wallpaper. It's a room filled with light, and the smell of parchment and old books permeates the air. A solarium that smells like a library. How strange.

Hermione's head hurts a little, and her thoughts are uncharacteristically slow-why? She knows the date, her name and age (21), the Prime Minister, she knows she was in Italy on holiday from her horribly frustrating job at the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She was alone.

There. She is probably not concussed.

Just to be sure, Hermione focuses her eyes to the corner opposite the couch. There are no strange blobs in her vision, no shadows trailing objects. There's a bookcase there, in a slightly dimmer corner. It's filled to bursting with scrolls.

Hermione frowns. Scrolls like that shouldn't be in a room this bright.

Belatedly, she looks at the window letting in all the light, and freezes. Directly in front of it are three vampires, standing utterly still, watching her.

And they are … glittering. Wait, what? Hermione blinks, closes her eyes. Perhaps she actually has a head wound, after all?

But no. She's forced to admit it-these vampires are actually sparking. They're caught in the sun's rays and their skin is somehow refracting, as though they're encrusted in gems.

Hermione's mind spins. Their cellular structure has been mineralized to the extent of becoming crystalline? How can it still be flexible? How can they _move_, for Merlin's sake?

"But that's incredible," she says out loud without realizing on an exhale of breath. "How is it possible?" She straightens up, utterly fascinated. "All of our sources say that your kind cannot go out in the sunlight. That it causes damage. There is no record of this whatsoever."

Like a boom being lowered in her brain, with an almost audible thud, her common sense catches up to her, and Hermione realizes. Vampires … the huge room … the tour group … and now she is, holy _Merlin_ and _Morgana_, ruminating _out loud on the implausibility of their skin_?

Silence fills the room. The three vampires have very strange looks on their faces.

"I apologize," Hermione says quietly. "My brain tends to get ahead of my manners, you see. I certainly didn't mean to offend." She hopes the apology is enough. Vampires tend to have old-fashioned ideas of civility. If they lunge at her, she promises she'll use her emergency portkey.

Or perhaps she could hold them off. There are only three of them.

And then Hermione realizes: there's nothing in her hand. She nearly growns aloud in frustration. Of course, _now_ is the moment she realizes her wand is missing. Hermione tries not to let her panic at this knowledge show on her face.

She suspects it's a wasted effort.

The silence stretches, and Hermione fidgets, thinks again of activating the magic in her pendant necklace. It's heavy under her shirt, waiting. Surely they wouldn't be able to drain her before it activated? There are approximately five liters of blood in the human body, weren't there?

_Not a productive line of thought, Hermione. _

The middle-glittering, sparkling, _glistening-_-vampire, a striking man with chalk-pale skin and deep red eyes and lips, smiles. It is wide and blissful, as if Hermione has done something to please him greatly.

From Hermione's perspective, this seems unlikely.

The happy vampire is wearing what looks like an expensively tailored, black Armani suit. He has a peculiar kind of charisma: now that Hermione knows he's there, she seems unable to look away.

He speaks. "Please forgive our silence, my dear. Despite our years, we are not accustomed to people awaking with quite that _particular _reaction to Alec's gift." He chuckles, a dark sound that makes Hermione's hand itch for her wand even as her ears bathe in it. The sound is low and harmonious, bass notes written on velvet brocade.

_Seductive qualities, _Hermione adds to her mental check list. She ignores her own feeling of attraction because honestly, it's ridiculous.

_Why would a being that could lure in prey so easily choose to feed on tour groups? _Somehow, Hermione's common sense manages to keep her from asking _that_ question out loud.

Instead she says, "Alec's … gift? May I ask where my …" she hesitates here, reluctant to label her wand as such (just in case) "... possessions have gone? And, where am I?"

The raven-haired vampire, clearly the leader if the other vampires' silence is anything to go by, smiles even more enthusiastically. His eyes are so wide, so red. "Why Volterra, dearest, of course." He holds up a hand to stem the flow of her (admittedly predictable) further questions. "Before I forget my _manners_," he says pointedly, "please, allow me to introduce myself and my brothers." He pauses delicately. "May I have your name, _piccola_?"

Comprehension dawns. Some pureblood manners book, or was it an etiquette book on Victorian societal norms? Hermione doesn't always retain her light reading. But of course these are old vampires with old ideas.

One presents the gentleman to the lady, never the other way around. Even, evidently, when one was just about to eat the woman in question.

But clearly, in their minds at least, that time has passed.

She hopes.

Still. it's difficult for Hermione to forget just how many were in that poor group of tourists. It was true that they were annoying. They were stupid about history, about antiques, and about art, but so were most people.

And they hadn't deserved _that. _

Yes. She's been careless enough for one day.

With all of that in mind, Hermione Granger answers the handsome vampire's question with complete, wide-eyed sincerity. "Rita," she says. "Rita Skeeter."

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**A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed / followed / favorited! I really appreciate it! This was a slow chapter, but things will pick up from here. I do have some ideas of where I plan to take this, but only vague ones, so if you have ideas/prompts, clichés you hope I avoid, just want to yell at someone because you had a bad day, feel free to share. Well, maybe not that last one. There are hotlines for that.

Business: I'm working on another project, trying to finish a (frustrating, so frustrating) novel with someone who's counting on me, so this story is a release valve wedged in among my rl and other writing. It will be updated irregularly and chapters will likely be short. I'm sorry about that but I wanted to be upfront since I do have things going on.


	3. Chapter 3

The raven-haired vampire seems happier, and far more amused, than anything with which Hermione is comfortable. He has a smile on his face that speaks of pleasant thoughts and happy surprises. Hermione frowns at him, confused.

"Miss … Skeeter," he says, "How _wonderful _to make your acquaintance! I am Aro of the Volturi, and these are my brothers, Caius," he gestures behind him, to his left, at an irritated-looking blonde vampire. "And Marcus." Here, Aro motions to his opposite side, at another man who seems lost in thought.

Aro Volturi's "brothers" (from the look of them, vampiric rather than familial) don't seem nearly as delighted as Aro. Together, the presence of the three fills the small, ornate office, as if they're collectively used to a much larger space.

Hermione feels the danger of them acutely. "Pleasure to meet you," she says, stiffly.

Aro chuckles knowingly, a sound at odds with his happy-go-lucky expression, and he takes two steps closer to where Hermione has stood beside the fainting couch . My dear," he says, "I rather _doubt_ that. But … perhaps you find us interesting?"

Hermione thinks of the nearly bloodless bodies decorating the throne room floor earlier, of the fact that the man before her—this vampire—has killed countless people. In front of her.

_They have to eat, _her ever-practical mind argues. _You just happened to be in the crossfire._

_There are other ways. Besides, look at him. He likes it._

"Why am I here?" she asks, ignoring Aro's question. It's rude, but then, so is murder and kidnapping.

Aro grins and takes another deliberate, graceful step toward her. "Why," he says, "because I want you here, my dear. Why else?"

Hermione absorbs this, folding her arms under her chest and placing one hand near the solid weight of her portkey. "And why me?" she asks. "There were at least fifteen that you killed in that tour group, if I recall correctly." She raises an eyebrow and wishes deeply that she had her wand.

There is a small silence in the room. Hermione shifts uneasily; her heart is pounding.

"Ah yes," Aro says, "the group." He tilts his head in a facsimile of empathy. "How dreadful that must have been for you, my dear. Please allow me to extend my apologies for your mental anguish."

Hermione stares at him, dumbfounded. In the distance outside the window behind the brothers, she can distantly hear traffic noises. How she wishes she were there and not here. "Pardon," she says, "did you just say you _regret my mental anguish_ but not the murder of a large group of innocent tourists?"

Aro smiles, seemingly happy with her analysis. "How astute of you, _cara_. Yes."

Hermione blinks, utterly lost.

Caius, the angry-looking brother, sighs loudly. "Tiresome. told you this was a waste of time, Aro."

From where Aro has stopped, an arm's length away from Hermione (far too close), he glances back at Caius. "Peace, brother. The poor dear has been through quite a bit today. He watches Hermione, one eyebrow raised, a mirror of her earlier expression. "I'm sure our little guest here didn't mean we should starve ourselves."

Hermione frowns. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? There's bagged blood. Mug-um, most hospitals carry it."

Aro holds his hands together beneath his chin, the tips of his fingertips not quite covering his tiny smile. He looks oddly like a little boy who's been naughty. "The anticoagulants are disgusting, my dear. Also, should we steal them, it would lead to difficulties with our secrecy."

"Well, you don't have to kill them to eat some of their blood," she persists. "Even if you do lure them here."

Aro's small smirk sharpens. "Ah, but our venom turns anyone we don't kill into a vampire. "

Hermione's eyes widen, startled. "You're … venomous?" She exhales. How fascinating.

The vampires she knows about are nothing like this. "Truly? Like … an arachnid?"

"Or a snake. Minus the fangs, of course."

Of course? "You don't have fangs?" Hermione has completely lost the thread of the conversation now. How she wishes she could take notes. What if she forgets something?

But then Aro reminds her. "So you can see our secrecy problems_, _dearest, Whether or not we finish a person's blood, their life is over."

"Yes, I see," she says, and she does. "But …"

"And then there is the long-term trauma that would result, even if it should be possible. Wouldn't you agree it's far kinder not to subject people to that? It seems quite inhumane, to me."

Hermione huffs. "You're making an argument for slaughtering tour groups based on the humanity? I admire your rhetorical skills, Mr. Volturi, but you'll excuse me if I don't submit to your point of view."

Aro grins, and then he's _right there, _and Hermione's back is pressed between the wall, and his long, hard vampire body. Aro speaks softly into her ear. "On the contrary, _sttreghetta mia_. I would be most disappointed if you were to … _submit_ … to anything of mine, quite so early. "

Hermione is frozen as she feels the ghosting of Aro's cool breath against her neck, the faint brush of his lips against the shell of her ear. She shudders and looks up through her lashes into his intense, red eyes. She wonders, suddenly and horribly, what Aro's lips would feel like on hers. Would they be cold? Dry? What would his venom taste like, against her tongue?

Would it be sweet?

A look she doesn't understand passes between them.

And then Aro is standing just where he was, a small smile curving the tips of his lips, as if nothing has just happened.

Hermione is utterly bewildered. For the first time she can remember, for just a moment in time, her mind has gone completely, utterly blank.

Then her brain kicks into overdrive—what just happened? What did he call her? Did he just .. surely not. She searches for the logic that eludes her. Perhaps this vampire is a little unbalanced? The idea of a mentally ill vampire is troubling—oh where did they put her wand? She should just portkey away.

Hermione feels shaken.

Damn her curiosity.

Caius sighs gustily. "Aro, this is wearying. Can we just kill her? Put her away for a while? Something."

Hermione stiffens with a hand on herchest, but Aro once again waves dismissively. "Patience, Caius," he says. "You'll _frighten_ her."

Is he serious? Hermione reflects that it is probably the point at which Harry would start to yell at her for not using the portkey yet. _You saw how fast they move, _he would say. _Hermione, what are you thinking? _

Hermione knows it is reckless, but she doesn't say the word that will send her to safety. She should.

She should, and she will. Just … not quite yet.

The thing is: it eats at her, this _not knowing_: How has she not learned about this type of vampire? She, of all people, should know. It is maddening. It is _intolerable_.

Hermione is certain that there is far more she can discover, if she just has a little more time.

Hermione is also certain that, one day, her curiosity is going to kill her. Based on the way that Aro is now grinning at her, that day might just be today.

Just one question, Hermione promises herself. She swallows. "May I ask how old you are?"

To Hermione's great—and probably obvious—relief, Aro answers in a pleasant tone. "I am over three thousand years old, my dear." He sounds amused again, indulgent. "Is it still considered rude to ask a woman her age?" One of his fingers slides lightly down her cheek.

Hermione finds herself fixated on his finger, her brain once again strangely stuttering before it kicks in with a vengeance. Three _thousand_? _Years?_ Before Hogwarts … At the beginning of the Iron Age … aqueducts ,,, before the first proper book! Hermione's brain reels.

"I'm twenty-one," she whispers, astounded. how can she ever ask every question that she would of this vampire? It would take hours. Days. Longer. The things this ancient man has _seen_ … "May I ask—"

Caius cuts in, clearly seething—why is he so angry? Is he also that old? Hermione's hand twitches for her missing wand. "You may _not_," he says. "Quite enough time has been wasted to this farce, Aro."

But even as Hermione wonders if the pale-haired vampire is simply going to snap and kill her where she stands, Aro waves his brother off yet again. and, oddly, Caius subsides. Of the three of the, Hermione surmises, Aro is clearly the leader.

"Perhaps we should change the subject," Aro says, quite calmly. "May I tell you, Miss Skeeter, what a pleasure it is to have you here? It has been _simply ages_ since we've had a _strega_ amongst us."

_Strega, _what does that word … Hermione stills. Witch. So that was what he called her earlier. My little witch, he'd said. "You know what I am."

"Of course." Aro beams down at her, still inappropriately close. "In fact," he says, twisting a curl of her hair between his fingers, "the last two magical people here are now members of our coven. It may interest you to know that rescued from a witch burning—their father was from what you call the Wizarding World, and unfortunately the local villagers found out."

Hermione blinks. "That's remarkable," and she means it. "There are only a few documented cases of magical people being changed into vampires, and those are mostly second-hand." She swallows against her desire to ask more.

But there is more—so much. Aro watches her, his eyes suddenly knowing, as if he can tell how it kills her, not to ask.

"Yes," he says, "isn't that remarkable? And they have such extraordinary gifts, too!". Aro hums. "I haven't been able to find out if such talents are usual among all turned witches, but I do so_ wonder _…"

Hermione doesn't know: is she more fascinated, or horrified by this man? Watching Aro, she finds herself wondering what it would be like, to live forever. To be able to read every book she wanted. To see history unfolding.

The things she could discover …

Then she shakes herself, utterly confused. What on earth is she thinking?

Caius's voice cuts through the tension in the air, and Hermione nearly sags in relief. "So it's been a while since we've seen a witch. Good. I find their arrogance intolerable."

Marcus sighs. "There was that one. With all the hair." He frowns at Hermione's own locks for a moment, then looks away again. She pats her mass of hair self-consciously. Surely, it isn't _that _bad.

It's just a little wild, that's all.

Caius makes a soft, disparaging sound. "At least this one seems marginally less insane."

Aro, however, is pleased at the reminder. "Indeed, brother, there was another after Jane and Alec." He steps back from Hermione, but focuses on her even more intently. "She wished for us to join her cause in your recent … dispute. An issue of internal politics. We refused, of course."

"That woman stank of Children of the Moon," Caius says. "And snake excrement."

"Indeed, most unpleasant." Aro's eyes sharpen. "But perhaps you knew of this witch, dear _Rita_? Bellatrix LeStrange?"

Hermione goes cold at the name, barely keeps herself from making a noise. She licks her lips. "Knew?" She laughs a little shakily. "Well, who didn't, really. She was somewhat infamous." Hermione firms her jaw and looks into Aro's eyes. "Dead now, though." A bit of hardness enters her tone at the last, and she sees Caius' eyes narrow.

She changes the subject abruptly. "May I have my wand, please?"

Aro's expression is thoughtful, nearly gentle. "Ah yes … your magical focus. How fascinating they are, I find. So different from the gifts vampires use, that require no such equipment." He taps the tips of his fingers together in thought. "For instance, our Alec was able to penetrate your shield charm with some slight effort. I find these sorts of differences so _interesting_, don't you, dear Rita?"

Hermione does. But she wants her wand more than she wishes to discuss magical contrasts between beings and wizards. Especially after discussing the vampire coven's association with Bellatrix.

So she just looks at him.

After a moment, Aro grins happily, as if she's just told him the most amusing joke ever "We're keeping it for safekeeping just now, _bella strega_. Rest assured it is intact and will be returned to you." He pauses, still grinning oh-so-cheerfully. "In time."

A chill travels down Hermione's spine at his words, for what is _time_ to a three-thousand year old vampire? "Why am I here?" It should have been her first question.

Aro sighs rapturously. "Yes, of course. The point of it all. Dearest … Miss … Rita Skeeter. I have a gift, I can obtain information from people, when I touch them."

"Information?"

"Well, everything," he says, "that is, every thought. Ever."

Hermione freezes. If what Aro is saying is true, it's both remarkable and horrifying. And he's been touching her.

Aro shrugs, a fluid, careless motion. "But, to the point, when I touched you, dearest witch, when I used my hand to retrieve your focus, I saw something unusual. I must confess to possess quite the burning curiosity about what it was …""

"You've been reading my thoughts?"

Aro makes a rueful face. "Not precisely." He holds out his hand. "May I?"

Hermione regards the vampire's palm, feeling an absurd urge to oblige him. It defies reason. To consent to having this ancient, powerful vampire use some kind of unknown magic on her was beyond foolishness.

But he has already been touching her, she reminds herself.

Slowly, Hermione slides her hand into Aro's. His skin has a slightly rough texture, like parchment. Hermione watches, mesmerized, as Aro places her hand between both of his and bends his head over her hand in concentration.

Hermione closes her eyes. There is a niggling feeling in her mind, like she's forgotten something important, like there's something she should know. And .. yes. She can feel Aro there. His mind, there, inside hers.

He feels … curious. Inquiring. Somehow, Hermione is reminded of her patronus, an otter, but of course that's ridiculous.

She opens her eyes, and Aro is staring at her.

"_Magia_," he says, and his brothers tense. "Magic."

Caius grimaces. "She's not like that shield, is she?" From his tone, this was not something Hermione wanted. "Another one we should have killed while we had the chance."

Aro grins, still staring into Hermione's eyes as if trying to solve a complex puzzle. "Not as such, Caius," he says. "You see, instead of receiving her thoughts, I found myself in an enormous library. It was … quite remarkable."

Hermione releases a breath. Her occlumency held up against Aro's gift. After what the vampire said about Alec (whoever he was) and his power, she had honestly wondered.

When she ever gets free, it would all make for a fascinating report, Hermione thinks distantly

_If _she gets out of this.

Marcus speaks. "A building One solid enough to withstand even your gift?" He sounds skeptical. "Is that possible?"

"Obviously," Caius says, shortly. Hermione wonders if he is irritated that she isn't dead yet. "She wasn't born with a library inside her head, was she?"

"But yet, she is the first we have encountered," Marcus says, calmly. "Perhaps she was."

"I wish I could take you there, brothers," Aro says. His voice has an odd, sing-song quality. "The completeness of the image … the architecture of the building, the walls of books, the portraits! I have never in all my long years met one who could create such an illusion in their mind." He grins at her. "My dear, you are simply a marvel. Could you tell me how it is done?"

Hermione's eyes widen. Against her better judgment, she is disarmed by his fascination, his curiosity—how well she knows that feeling, all too well. Would it do any harm for her to be honest? Slowly, she says, "it's not an illusion, not as most people conceive of one. It would be more properly called … a magical construct."

Aro tilts his head. His eyes intelligent, engaging. "Forgive me, but what is the difference, my dear? A thought is an illusion the same, is it not?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Not quite. The library is an actual place I created in my own consciousness."

Aro nods thoughtfully. "And what is the purpose of this … place?"

Hermione swallows. "It's to keep my mind safe from magical attacks."

"There are wizards that can attack the mind?" Now Aro looks _fascinated._

"Yes," Hermione says, feeling deeply uneasy.. "There are. Not many, but some."

"And why so few?"

How did she get into this? The Minister was going to kill her. If she ever saw him again. "Well. It's quite advanced magic. They don't teach it in our schools. It takes a certain strength of magic, a particular focus."

"Fascinating," Aro says, removing one of his hands, but not both. His long fingers begin to stroke the paper-thin skin stretched over Hermione's veins, making her eyes widen. "And to defend oneself against this advanced magic? Is that a thing that most of your kind can do, Miss Skeeter?"

_Oh, Merlin. _Hermione considers lying, but she's paused for too long. It's no use. "No," she admits. "Occlumency is considered somewhat obscure, but no one knows that for certain." She hesitates. "Those who practice it don't tend to make themselves known."

"It is an actual place, made up of your essence? Your … magic? I wonder if we changed you, if it would remain." He looks altogether too interested to find out.

Hermione stares at his hand, wishing he would release her. "My magic., yes, precisely." How was it that Aro understood the concept so easily, when she'd tried so many times to explain it to Harry and Ron—both grown wizards—and failed?

Aro releases her hand and claps. "Brilliant! What a _concept_." He seems enthralled, seemingly almost overcome. He leans in closer to her face and lowers his voice to a quiet murmur. "How wonderful you will be here, amongst us. A true jewel. I find that I quite look forward to our long acquaintance."

Hermione stills. Long acquaintance? Surely he can't mean … "I'm expected at home. Today was the last day of my vacation." This is a lie. It was actually a week from now.

Aro tilts his head in what is clearly polite and false sympathy. "Ah, how regretful. But you see, my dear, you have broken our law, and therefore must remain."

"Which law?"

"Our secrecy law, of course. We allow no human to know of little society."

"That is absurd." Hermione says. "I've known about vampires since age eleven, and most of my kind know far earlier. All of the Wizarding World knows. And we have our own laws." She forces herself to stay calm.

"we know of your laws, little witch. And we also know what your kind would like to do to us," Caius says.

Aro shakes his head regretfully. "Your Ministers tend to believe that all things not—how do you say it, Muggle?—belong to them. Whereas we here at the Volturi, as rulers of vampire-kind, we tend to … disagree."

Hermione feels breathless. "But surely—"

"You see, right now," Aro continues inexorably, "your governments believe our kind are but a scattered few, mostly irrelevant, not worthy of notice. Should they learn the truth …: he trails off apologetically. "You understand. I'm afraid we can't give them any reason to bother us."

"But … there are vampires who fall into my Ministry's jurisdiction," Hermione says, scrambling. "They may not be your kind, but surely if you maintain secrecy for vampires, you must see them as a conflict."

Aro smiles tightly. "We allow them to play by your rules, as long as they maintain our laws."

"So … what? You plan to keep me here as a prisoner?"

"Nothing so crude, dearest. We will turn you into one of us." Aro's beams. "What a wonderful addition you will make! The potential!"

Hermione shakes her head in disbelief. "I'm a friend of the Minister," she says. "He won't rest until the aurors have found me. And they won't look kindly on my bring turned against my will."

"Your Ministry aren't aware we're here. They believe our main coven is still in Romania. Besides, I doubt very much they know where you are. Do they?"

Hermione looks away. Of course they don't.

With a blur of speed, Aro is once again in her personal space, and one of his cold, textured hands cups her cheek. "How extraordinary you are," he sighs. His voice is a soft, crooning whisper.. " How brave. You must be a formidable witch, indeed." His red eyes bore into hers. "And I will make you even more extraordinary as a vampire."

Hermione can feel a burning behind her eyes, a thick feeling in her throat. She knows that she won't cry, and that there's no use in pleading for her life.

No. There is nothing left to say.

Except, perhaps ...

"_Portus_." Hermione's voice is clear and cold in the abruptly still room, and the last thing she sees before she is jerked into nothing is Aro Volturi's face.

And what she sees chills her, even as she is vanished from the vampire's control.

For Aro's eyes are wide and amazed; his mouth is curled up into an expression of the sheerest delight.

He looks _ecstatic. _


	4. Chapter 4

A/N at end.

*/*/*

_Two days later_

Hermione is behind her desk at the Ministry. She's been there for hours; there's no point in going home now. Her late-night visits to her office to "check on things" nearly always resulted in her staying all night long.

And this is no ordinary visit.

Hermione hasn't bothered with her usual work, and she really should feel guilty, since there's a lot to catch up on, stacks and rolls of parchment waiting for her … but she can't. Not yet. Hermione is there with a purpose. She simply must find out what the Ministry actually knows about the strange new breed of vampires she has encountered.

About the Volturi.

It's just not possible that they know nothing at all.

What was it that Aro said? Hermione pictures him, tall and elegant and pale with that strange childlike fascination filling his demon's red eyes. It's easy to bring him up in her mind; he has his very own book in her mental library. All she has to do is visualize it, and she can see his face again. See how he stared at her like a puzzle to be solved. How his cool breath felt against her neck.

What was he trying to accomplish, with that? Seduction? Intimidation? A combination of both?

She's getting sidetracked. Hermione turns the mental page, and then … oh yes:

" … _right now, your governments believe our kind to be a scattered few … Should they learn the truth …"_

Hermione narrows her eyes, knowing this is huge. What she has learned could shake things up at the Ministry, panic people.

A completely new kind of vampire, one with gifts that can overcome a witch or wizard … one that can bear he sunlight … It's astonishing. And frightening.

She has an obligation to find out as much as possible before she reveals what she found out in Volterra.

Hermione chews on the end of her quill. What will the Wizengamot do, once they find out? She frowns, not liking that train of thought. Perhaps the whole affair will require careful framing. She doesn't want to start an incident, incite fear, because she was caught up in ...

_Their dinner rush? _ The witch shudders, caught between dark amusement and remembered terror.

She sighs and waves her wand to reheat her tea. Getting a replacement from Ollivander at such short notice had been expensive, but the only other wand she'd had was Bellatrix's, from the war. Even holding it made Hermione feel dirty.

She drinks her tea, ignores her fatigue and begins again, searching her files for anything at all about Volterra. And three vampires named Aro, Marcus, and Caius Volturi. Anything at all.

For the first five hours, Hermione does not find anything of use. Her department supposedly regulates every vampire in Great Britain, providing them with strictures and (at Hermione's sole insistence) help and advice … and yet there is nothing.

Hermione huffs in irritation when she finds a singular vague reference to "vampire self-regulation" in the transcripts of a court case. The questioner didn't follow up on that comment, not that it would have mattered, as vampires are immune to veritaserum (unless it is delivered to a person who is then used as a blood donor, and Hermione rather doubts the Ministry is even aware of this delivery method).

It is two in the morning. Hermione shakes her head in frustration, absently catching an odd bit of parchment that somehow got caught in her hair. There is ink on her fingers and a smudge on her cheek, and she doesn't care, because it is all _just so illogical. _

The Volturi, in their own words, are in control of the worldwide vampire population. Not just their own odd group, mind, but every single Merlin-blasted undead creature on the planet. And somehow there is no mention of them _whatsoever_?

How is that _possible_?

Hermione feels an uneasy excitement build within her. To be the one to tell the Wizarding world about a cover-up this huge would be very impressive, indeed. She can't help but be aware of that.

But … she wonders again … what would they do with the knowledge?

_This isn't the same place that decided Muggle-borns needed to register, Hermione, _she thinks to herself. _There's been progress made. _She thinks of her small advances toward making house-elf beatings (and ordered self-mutilations) illegal. And now, killing a centaur is actually considered a crime.

Hermione groans at her own examples; they just serve to show how backwards wizards are. Why she should care about a pack of murderous, bloodthirsty, egotistical Italian vampires, she has no idea.

But, somehow … she does.

_Research first. Logic before emotion. _She nods firmly and goes back to work.

Still, it isn't until she enters the Ministry archives that she finds something concrete.

*/*/*

It's three in the morning.

The archives are in an enormous underground cavern partitioned into levels. They're crammed full of the obscure, the irrelevant, and the just plain strange. These stacks are also filled with dust allergens, a condition for which—strangely—there is no good magical cure. Since Hogwarts, Hermione has taken to bringing Muggle allergy medicine when she will be around old books. Which is always.

Unfortunately, on this occasion, she forgot and has to settle for watery eyes and wiping her nose with an especially fine handkerchief formerly owned by Viktor Krum. That, and compulsive sneezing.

The archives are empty at this time, which is fortunate. Hermione hates having to lie, and she would, if asked. She steps into the dedicated elevator, presses the down button.

The tinny, overly-pleasant voice that announces floors is too loud as the elevator creaks ever-downward, and if it weren't for magic, Hermione would have to seriously question the wisdom of digging a structure so deep. Sometimes she does wonder if all of the layered magic will just collapse in on itself one day. Wizards tend to be overconfident about most things.

But then, they tend to be over-confident about everything really. Muggles, vampires, their own superiority.

"Sublevel 72, Taxidermy Charms, Sublevel 85, Hair Depilatory and Baldness Reduction Potions with Unfortunate Side-Effects … Sublevel 250, Undesirables Beasts and Beings."

Hermione gets off the elevator and sighs in relief, which immediately leads to a massive attack of sneezes.

"Sublevel 251," she murmurs, pausing to blow into the linen handkerchief in her hand. "Witches asking for trouble."

*/*/*

Hermione searches for an hour before she finds something. She stares at the tome by the light of a nearby charmed wall torch. The illumination from the smokeless flame flickers over the dusty, cracked leather cover. The archive must have squired it when it was already old, she thinks distantly, as their preservation spells normally prevent that sort of aging process.

_An Undead Who's Who: Vampires from Rogues to Royals._

Hermione snorts at the title but opens it, casting a _Lumos_ and looking at the date inside. The book is circa 1598. With eager fingers, she carefully turns from the Q, T, … She lets out a frustrated huff. The entire "V" section has been removed, each page carefully sliced away. The book goes from the end of "U" to the beginning of "W."

Hermione closes the book slowly and replaces it back to the shelf. _Surely it's just a_ _coincidence_. She moved on down the stacks, examining anything that looks promising, before tugging out a small, leather-bound journal.

She sneezes furiously into her handkerchief and blinks at the title. _Supernatural Legends amongst the Native Peoples: My Life Exploring the Americas, by Xander Lovegood, Jr..._

She can't help but smile at the name: It seems the Lovegood family runs true to type. With that thought in mind, Hermione opens the book and begins to read.

It's a journal of Lovegood's travels. It seems he had a falling out with another old family and, upon being challenged to a duel he had no hope of winning, fled to a place he thought would be safe: a completely different continent. Once there, he travelled from tribe to tribe, meeting the Native Americans, living amongst them, and learning their legends.

Hermione flips through the stories of magical beasts terrorizing the locals, shaman turning into giant crows to spy upon neighboring tribes. She wonders if she shouldn't send Luna a letter to tell her of the journal. She's just about to put it down and give up for the night when she finds it.

_The Cold Ones_

_After months of travelling over the mountains, I said goodbye to my native guide and made use of my magic at the peak of a mountain range to the furthest place I could see. After a few such jumps, I came to a place that seemed almost on the edge of the world, and shrouded in rain and fog. Green and lush, and with enormous trees all around, it was quite alien to me. Shortly after arriving, I was met by a member of the Quileute tribe, a man named …_

Hermione read on, feeling a prickle of excitement.

_I was invited to their bonfire that evening, at which the Chief told a story of a tribal chief called Taha Aki who, trapped in the spirit world by a jealous rival, possessed a giant wolf with his spirit. As a wolf he …_

Hermione scans the next page, which is an account of the story, a tale of a shapeshifting tribal leader.

… _Taha Aki gave the leadership of the tribe to his son, Taha Wi, who he asked to discover who had taken the five young women from the Makah tribe. If he could not find them, there could be a war, as the Makahs believed that the Quileute had taken the women. _

Hermione reads on, taking in the account of tribal wolves gone missing in the investigation, then of more disappearances.

… _Yaha Uta returned, carrying strange cold prices of a corpse. The elders called the creature a Cold One, a Blood Drinker. _

Hermione feels a rush of excitement, her tiredness forgotten. She flips forward excitedly, reading everything, then Lovegood's notes.

_This legend is fascinating to me, as, although I have run across many tales of spirit guardians in my travels, and some of magical beasts, this is the first of any magical being aside from the tribal animal protectors. Also, among vampire accounts, this one is unique. I have never personally encountered a vampire of this nature. Upon learning what I am, and after much persuasion, the elders of the tribe shared what they know of these creatures, which they promise to me upon their very lives are real and not just a part of their legends._

_According to the Quileute elders, the creatures drink blood but, rather than fangs, possess instead teeth sharp as any razor. They are inhumanly quick, like all vampires, and strong, but they do not share other vampire weaknesses. They can travel and function in daylight, although their skin bears a distinctive appearance marking them as inhuman. Also, they cannot be staked through the heart, as the vampires of whom I, hitherto to this point, have known. The only way to kill such a creature, they claim, is to tear it apart and burn the pieces in a hot fire until there is nothing left but ash and purple smoke. _

_I confess, the idea of a creature such as this chills me. Even though I am a wizard, I pray that I never meet one._

*/*/*

It's seven in the morning. The faint beginnings of morning light are staining the sky outside Hermione's office window. Hermione is back at her desk, shaken by what she's found.

How could the Ministry _forget _about these vampires? And if they are known, how could they think them insignificant?

Hermione shakes her head in frustration. She really will have to tell someone, what has happened to her. The Ministry of Magic should handle the Volturi—they killed all those helpless Muggles. And they tried to kidnap her. Her Ministry needs to inform the Italian Ministry, there will likely be an international incident of some kind, and she'll be in the middle of the whole thing. And that, just as Hermione is starting to feel like the press is beginning to back off her the tiniest fraction.

_That doesn't matter, _Hermione tells herself firmly. The Volturi are clearly abusing their power. They need to be stopped.

No, she decides, she will need to talk to her department head, Charles Montague. Asshat that he is, he'll love the idea of getting some vampires in trouble. Bonus points, no doubt, if it makes his know-it-all employee uncomfortable.

_Montague is going to love this._

*/*/*

It's ten in the morning. Hermione has taken three alertness potions and she's still exhausted.

As is usual for him, it's late morning before Charles shows up, looking rested and well-groomed. He's dressed in thick, expensive, and utterly impractical work robes. He got the job, Hermione knows, because he's an old-money pureblood, and his great-uncle has more money than God, half of which he donated toward the Reconstruction efforts (not not-quite-coincidentally keeping most of his unmarked Death Eater family out of Azkaban). Charles more or less regards his job as an amusing diversion to be worked in between long lunch meetings, longer afternoon tea meetings, and extremely long ingratiating chats with anyone in a higher position than himself.

Hermione should hate him, but Charles is such a deeply nervous person that she can't quite manage it. Even if he is a bigot in every way possible, and she does his job for him on a regular basis.

Seeing Charles pass, she looks up, but before she can get a chance to wave him down, the newspaper arrives late, flying via bird through her open window with a slight breeze and a flutter of feathers.

The barn owl drops the paper in the middle of her work, like a turd, and Hermione recoils in much the same way.

A picture of her is on the very first page. She closes her eyes. Why today? Her very first day back … she sighs, opens her eyes again. With a twitch of one finger, she unfolds the Prophet. Winces. Yes, it's her, all right, and the image is unflattering. But then, when is it not?

In this picture, she must have stepped out without makeup after crying for hours. It's likely an image from just after the brake-u with Ron. Her sad, weary face flickers above large print.

_BOOKISH HEROINE CUTS SHORT ROMANTIC ESCAPADE! IS THERE TROUBLE IN PARADISE?_

_ by Rita Skeeter_

Seeing the author, Hermione makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

_Unnamed sources within the Ministry of Magic confirmed yesterday that, despite having secured holiday time for the period ending the 20__th__, Hermione Granger, the Wizarding World's most well-known (and controversial) war-time figure, has returned to work. Further sources confirm that the wildly outspoken Muggle-born witch's International Portkey ( obtained stealthily two weeks prior, details forthcoming) was set to activate in a further five days from Rome, Italy._

"_I don't know why she left, Rome's one of the most romantic cities out there, "Pansy Parkinson, a former classmate and confidant of Miss Grangers, said in an exclusive interview (see page 41 for Miss. Parkinson's upcoming line of blemish creams, available in May). "What I wouldn't give to have someone take me there in secret. Not that I lack for suitors, of course. It's just that it's so romantic!"_

_Romantic or not, the name of the man (or woman) that met Miss Granger clandestinely is unknown at this time, but whoever he (or she) is, they might very well have run afoul of Miss Granger's past. Could her antics and well-publicized past as a heartbreaker cast a pall on what was to be a blossoming romance? Could her supposedly-former promiscuity have come to light, perhaps at some scenic historical spot at sunset, causing a rift between the two ardent lovebirds, and thus forcing Miss Granger's unexpected ad tearful return trip? _

_In search of answers, we caught Ronald Weasley, former (and, like most of the Muggle-born witch's romantic liaisons, short-lived) fiancé to Miss Hermione Granger and fellow war-time 'Golden Trio' member. Mr. Weasley has been part-time Keeper for the Chudley Cannons since being washed out of Auror training, an event that reportedly caused Miss Granger to leave Mr. Weasley for a man with better career prospects. _

"_Whoever the wizard is, it's a good job he left now, if you ask me. Hermione's a cold piece of work. It doesn't surprise me that she'd go off on an escapade to Italy with some bloke, only to dump him cold without warning. It hardly takes anything much, with her."_

"Except perhaps cheating and lying," Hermione mutters. "And then doing it again." Ronald's version of "nothing much" to break a relationship over, she knows from hard experience, is pretty much everything, as long as he acts contrite about it.

Hermione sighs and resumes reading. Mercifully, there's just one more line.

_This enquiring reporter wants to know: who is this scorned, badly used mystery person?_

*/*/*

"I should have squished her." Hermione imagines men and women reading the same slander from Rita Skeeter, and feels sick. Oh, how she hates that woman.

Unfortunately Skeeter is out of her reach. The reporter took advantage of the post-war amnesty on small crimes like failure to register her animagus form, and now that she was legal and twice as malicious. This article is just one of so many others.

Sometimes, Hermione wonders why she stays in the Wizarding World at all.

There's a knock on her door frame, and Hermione jerks. It's Charles. He stands in her doorway, looking even more nervous than usual. Hermione frowns, already knowing something is wrong. It's not the newspaper article—if he'd seen it, he would likely be smiling. "How are you, Charles? I'd planned to come see you later, actually."

Charles perks up a little at her words. Is that relief? "Really? Everything all right?"

Hermione grimaces. 'All right' wasn't exactly the expression she would have used. Since she'd returned from Italy via Portkey, landing abruptly into the safety of her warded apartment, she's been a bit … twitchy. And she'd had the strangest dream the night before, of Aro Volturi sitting in her library with a stack of her books.

Touching them with his long, pale fingers. Opening their pages, one by one.

"You first."

Charles folds himself into her desk chair without being invited. He straightens his expensive robes with one hand, makes a small moue of displeasure. "It's about the beings bill," he says, too carefully. Sudden alarm makes Hermione frown.

"What about it? It's not up until next session. Was there another addition?" Oh how she hates those. Committees filled with well-connected old families tacking on this and that. She pushes her hands through the files stacked on her desk to find the latest copy. She should have looked at it sooner, but she'd gotten so sidetracked by the Volturi.

She freezes at the feel of Charles's hand stopping hers. Hermione pulls away as if stung. "What …"

Her supervisor stares at her hand, then away. "They pushed it through," he says. "While you were gone."

Hermione blinks, caught for a moment with her thoughts slightly out-of-sync. Charles, by contrast, only seems slightly nervous. The witch imagines it's about her reaction, not the bill itself. "But … " she flounders. "There wasn't a session."

"They called a special meeting. It was organized by the Black and Malfoy families."

Hermione slumps. The new head of the Black family, a distant cousin of Sirius's, claimed the Wizengamot seat and has since made it his mission to push through restrictive Beings measures. She and Harry had speculated that it was retribution for Sirius being friends with a werewolf. Whatever it was, he'd been remarkably successful in allying himself with other old pureblooded families. The Malfoys might not have openly supported blood purity legislation any longer, but they felt no such compunction to hide their prejudice in other areas.

It was obvious that they'd called the session to avoid her arguments against the bill. No one else really cared that much about what happened to any of the Brings. Not even Kingsley, unless she convinced him. He cared about Muggle-borns, yes, and about witches. About centaurs or vampires? Not so much.

"Who was the third?" Hermione asks, dreading the answer. It takes three families with Wizengamot seats to call an emergency session. She can't think of any other members who would use their powers in such a small-minded, malicious, mercenary way ….

"The Weasleys."

Hermione stares at him, flabbergasted. Her mouth opens, then closes again. Percy had taken over for Arthur when he had fallen ill, but surely even he …. "Did Percy vote for the measure?"

Charles clears his throat uncomfortably. "Er. Yes. Rumor has it for a consideration from the Blacks."

Hermione swallows, unsure she wants to know. She'll have to ask Harry later. If she can catch him away from Ginny. Hermione isn't at all sure she should be around any Weasley right now. "The measure passed," she says in disbelief, stating the obvious.

Her colleague clucks his tongue. "I doubt it was because you were gone, Hermione," he says, far too placating. "There was a vampire incident in London, close to the Leaky. I think it was just the last straw for some of the members, you see. They felt they really had to act."

Hermione controls her tongue with an effort of will. "Was someone killed?"

"Killed? Oh, er, no. Thank Merlin." Charles chuckles nervously. " I believe he was going around smelling the ladies' necks in the Muggle shops and they called for help to the, ah, whatever you call them? Muggle aurors. You know. Our aurors heard it was a vampire and they staked him before he could get any further along." Charles smiles cheerfully. "The obliviators came, took care of the women he was, ah, sniffing. Crisis averted and all that."

"So … let me see if I understand this, Charles." Hermione takes a deep, cleaning breath. "A vampire has been killed and all vampires in Great Britain have now lost freedoms because one of them smelled some Muggle women's blood?"

Charles scratches his cheek thoughtfully, used to her defensive attitudes toward the undead. "Well. If you can call killing a vampire killing, I suppose. Aren't they dead already? Thing is, it was at the perfume counter at one of those huge shops I always forget the name of … what _do _the Muggles call them again? Tip of my tongue." He sighs. "Never mind, it'll come to me later, always does …. Right, so the vampire claimed he was trying to find a scent for his girlfriend, and they never suspected." He shudders dramatically. "It's a bit cold-blooded, really. No pun intended."

Hermione places her palm on her forehead. "I see. So all vampires now have to register because one of them went shopping. That's … really wonderful, Charles. Anything else I should know?"

"They have to go on the potion, as well. Can't feed."

"But …" Hermione is at a loss. "Not even from animals? They never finished that. The side effects …"

Charles gets up from the chair. "Nah, blood's illegal now. I expect we're hoping they stay away. Maybe move to France where they can still eat the locals, siphon off blood banks. Should make our lives easier around here, at any rate." He shrugs and gives her what is probably supposed to be a sympathetic look. "Wouldn't worry about it too much, Hermione. They did keep your name on the bill, so you'll still get some of the credit."

Hermione chokes. The potion the vampires in England would have to take isn't enough to keep a vampire functioning, not really. The measure passed while she was gone has expelled all of the vampires. All without saying the words.

Her _name_ is on the bill.

And the man in front of her, in charge of the Beings department? He looks … happy.

"Charles," Hermione says, because she has to try, although she feels oddly dizzy. "Surely you're not on board with this."

Charles sighs, clearly already disengaged from the conversation. "It hardly matters what I think, does it," he says. "Anyway, it's not all that bad, there is the potion, after all, if they really want to stay and register. It's all in the measure. Read it, you'll see."

"Aren't they worried about how the vampires might react to this?"

Her supervisor shrugs. "Not much they can do about it, eh? The Aurors are cracks at handing vampires, what with that staking spell of theirs."

Hermione thinks of that answer, and of vampires that cannot be staked. Cold ones that must be torn apart and burnt into purple smoke. Vampires that eat innocents.

Then she thinks of the Ministry, who believe that vampires shouldn't eat at all. Right now, Hermione has no idea who is better, and the thought shakes her.

"I see." It's all she can think to say.

Charles gives her s small, fake smile. "I have to go and sort out the new sub-departments they created." He snaps his fingers. "Oh. I almost forgot. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Hermione stares at him. "Nothing," she says, after a pause. "Nothing at all."

*/*/*

**A/N:** So here it is, chapter 4 of my crazy crossover. There are a couple of things I should mention … the HP canon (that I could find) isn't really clear on the specific qualities of vampires in the HP world, aside from them obviously not being sparking Cold Ones. So I'm kind of using the idea that there are a few types, all pretty similar, and then there's this unfamiliar kind that Hermione has encountered.

I took the Quileute legend Hermione reads from the Twilight wiki. I had reasons for wanting to use that legend that I will probably / maybe use later.

To those who asked before, yes, I do plan this to be a Hermione / Aro pairing. I guess it's a somewhat dark romance between a world-weary witch and a three-thousand year old vampire. Given the characters, I can't imagine a developing relationship will be a basket of puppies and sunshine. But I have no plan. I just type and these things come out.

Thank you so much to everyone who has followed / favorited / reviewed so far. It means a lot, so please let me know what you think. :)


	5. Chapter 5

_12 Grimmauld Place - Three days later_

Ginny opens the door, which is unfortunate. Since Hermione's rift with Ron, things between the almost-sisters-in-law have been strained. It helped when Ron eventually admitted that he'd cheated to his family (after being bullied into it by Molly once Harry accidentally-on-purpose let it slip to George, who told Arthur). Still, that was after a week of libelous Prophet articles, Howlers, and public bad-mouthing, and by that time, the damage was done. Things were said, and anyway, Hermione knows what Ginny and Molly both secretly believe: she pushed Ron into it.

Hermione doesn't care what the Weasleys think any more. She just wishes that Ginny would let it go.

To smooth things along, Hermione is beaming in what she hopes is a warm, friendly manner. She's bearing a gift: pastries from a magical bakery in Italy (delivered instantly to her home before The Incident).

Ginny lets Hermione escape the rainy drizzle outside and takes the stasis-charmed box by its string closure with two fingers, like it might bite. Hermione ignores the slight and looks around. The hallway has been renovated, as has the rest of the house. It's been a while since crossed this threshold. How long? Hermione tries, but can't remember. Before Ron.

"You can stop grimacing now, Hermione," Ginny says, avoiding the other witch's eyes. "It's a little creepy, if you must know." She gestures down the hallway with a jerk of her hand. "Harry's in the library."

Hermione's smile shrivels. "Thank you," she says stiffly.

Ginny looks over her shoulder, already walking away. "Sure, thanks for dessert." She abruptly swivels and snaps her fingers, and Hermione blinks in surprise. "I forgot. How was Italy? A little bug said you left early." She smiles, quick and insincere.

Hermione sighs inwardly. She knows that the other woman is just digging for information. It stings a little. "It was solitary, despite what Skeeter said. And I was fine. I learned a lot."

_Lie._

Harry's wife's posture relaxes, and she snorts. "Of course you did." She shakes her head. "But you left early?"

"Oh. I had loads to do at work." Hermione hesitates. "And there was the Beings measure."

Ginny pushes her thick red hair behind her shoulders, then back in what Hermione knows is a nervous tell.. "Right," she says. "I ... heard. You should have heard the explosion at home when it came out. But then, I expect Harry'll explain it to you. Like usual." She turns and starts to walk away again.

Is that resentment in Ginny's voice? Hermione frowns. This is the wife of her best friend. Perhaps she should try harder. "Ginny, wait." The words are out before she can stop them.

Ginny stops on her way to the stairs. "What is it?"

"Maybe …"_ This is a terrible idea._ "It's been a … while since we did anything. I was thinking perhaps," Hermione clears her throat nervously, "you and I could meet, before the baby's born."

Ginny looks away, at the wall, then straight into Hermione's eyes, making eye contact for the first time since the other witch entered Grimmauld Place. Hermione reflects that it's perhaps the first time in months.

Then she laughs uncomfortably. "Look … Hermione. I … ah, appreciate you making an effort." _Like you didn't with my brother, _goes unsaid. "And Iknow we were kind of close, once." Ginny shrugs. "I thought it'd be a good idea for us to be friends. We were practically family, and I wanted a sister. But now … well … you're friends with Harry, and …" Ginny grimaces, "Well. Let's be honest, yeah? Harry will be busier with the baby when it comes, and we'll get together with other couples more … and not so many others, except family." She shrugs. "There's not much point, is there?"

Hermione feels like someone just punched her in the gut. The worst of it is, she's stupid for even trying. When will she learn?

"Right," Ginny says, looking away. "You should go in, I expect Harry's waiting. You two can have your super-secret get-together." _Yes, that was definitely resentment._

The older witch sighs, longing for seventh year again, when the war was over, she and Ron were doing well (before she knew what actually being with him would be like), and she and Ginny shared secrets beside the fire in Gryffindor tower. She wonders if Ginny felt this bitterness toward her back then, or if it's new.

When had things become so complicated?

_They aren't complicated, Granger. They just … aren't._

Hermione forces herself to speak casually. "He'll tell you everything later, I'm sure."

"Oh, Harry does tell me everything, not to worry." Ginny taps the slight bulge of her stomach lightly with her fingertips. "Well. I'm for the doctor. Baby appointment. This one's solo, so you've got Harry to yourself."

"I wasn't—"

But Ginny's already left.

*/*/*

Hermione sits opposite Harry in the dark-paneled library. It's the only part of the former Black residence that seems largely unchanged; it's nearly as gloomy and filled with shadows as ever. There's a smell of wood-smoke and leather in the air, and the faint aroma of the tea that Kreacher had placed on the table between the two large wingback chairs. Hermione eyes it all, still feeling shell-shocked from her encounter with Ginny. She shoves the emotion resolutely to the side.

"Well, if it isn't the scarlet woman herself," Harry says. "Don't mind Ginny, she's a little off lately. I think it's the pregnancy hormones. Plus, you know the Weasleys.."

Hermione smiles, although she knows better. "Don't let her hear you say that."

"That's the kind of mistake you only make once, trust me." Harry shudders dramatically.

"Which part?"

"Both."

Hermione laughs. "It all suits you, Harry," she says. "Marriage, the baby coming. All of it.""

The fire crackles in the quiet air of the library, and Harry smiles. "I suppose. I do wish the Weasleys would leave off on you, though. It's been ages."

_Since I came here? Since we actually talked when we're not at the Ministry?_

"You mean Ron's interview," she says instead.

"Yeah." Harry changes the subject. "How was everything in Italy? Did something go wrong, or was it just Rita?"

Hermione sighs. Here comes the moment she has to decide. She came thinking that she would talk to Harry in confidence. And she does want to tell him, because she knows he could help. He would _want_ to help.

But now, Hermione realizes she can't. What she tells Harry, he tells Ginny, and once Ginny knows, so does every Weasley and, from them, everyone in magical England. And then the paper reports on it, via Ron … No. Hermione can't ask Harry to keep something from his pregnant wife. She forces a smile. "It was fine. Other than the article after, of course."

Harry looks conflicted, like he knows Hermione's not telling everything. The witch waits for more questions. Sometimes he can read her too well. Then and there, she decides: _If he presses me, I'll tell him, and never mind the Weasleys._

But Harry doesn't. Instead, he changes the subject again. "I suppose you heard about Rita, then."

"What do you mean?"

Harry shrugs. The firelight from the earth reflects off his glasses, hiding his eyes. "She came in asking for an Auror to protect her."

Hermione blinks, confused. "Rita Skeeter?"

"The very same."

"Like a personal bodyguard?"

"Exactly like. She wanted someone to stay at her home, go to work with her, if you can believe that. She claims someone's following her. That her life's in, I quote, 'great peril'." He smiles mirthlessly. Harry, like Hermione, has been the object of Rita's attentions too many times not to feel a bit of schadenfreude. "When we refused, she accused me personally of all kinds of things, all of which she would pretty well deserve." He grimaces. "I suppose I should feel guilty, saying that."

Hermione makes a soft, disparaging noise. "You wouldn't be the only one to wish her harm. Did they give her someone, in the end?"

"Merlin, no. Bones told her we're not in the business of guarding reporters, there's plenty of people _The Prophet _could hire for that." Harry snorts. "She gave Rita a few names, but she wouldn't stop talking. They did finally agree to check Skeeter's building once a night for anything unusual, but I doubt it'll really happen." He shakes his head. "That was after she threatened an expose about Auror incompetence."

"Circe."

"She had a list of people who we should investigate, Hermione. I kid you not, it was the length of every essay Professor Snape ever gave us for our entire Hogwarts career."

"I can imagine," Hermione says. "I have daydreams of her sometimes, fluttering around in that glass jar. Only this time, I've forgotten the air holes."

Harry smiles, and then shakes his head. "All jokes aside, you should have seen her. I hate the woman and even I almost felt sorry for her. She was so frightened."

Without meaning to, Hermione recalls a room in Volterra, where she used Rita's name instead of her own. She remembers Aro Volturi's lips forming her assumed name, over and over.

Yes, Hermione thinks. Aro would have remembered. And that look on his face, when she port-keyed away … she shudders involuntarily, disturbed.

_It's just a coincidence._

"Are you cold?" Harry asks, seeing the movement.

"I'm fine." _Rita has so many enemies. It doesn't mean anything. _

_But she doesn't deserve to die, does she?_

_What can I do, go to her and confess my adventures with the Cold Ones_

_Imagine the headlines …_

_It's only happenstance._

Hermione clears her throat. Changes the subject. "Do you know why Percy helped the Beings bill? Ginny mentioned something."

Harry gives her a rueful look. "You won't like it."

"What do I ever?" Hermione says. "It's Percy."

"Actually, in this case, it's also Ron." He sighs at her look. "Percy was doing Ron a favor."

"What?" Hermione stares at him. "Since when does Ron care about politics? That doesn't make any … wait." She remembers something. "Charles said the Weasleys got a consideration from the Blacks. A favor?" Hermione thinks rapidly. "Why would Ron ever want a favor from the Black family?"

Harry nods. "Yes, a favor. Ron's … 'm not sure this should come from me."

"Out with it, Harry. If it's not you, it'll be someone less friendly, you know that," Hermione says. "Unless you'd like Draco Malfoy to tell me about it in the Ministry hallway instead. Like he's congratulated me on my great success authoring the Beings bill."

"He's a twat."

"Language, Harry. And I know." Hermione smiles at Harry's laugh. "Now tell me."

Her friend shrugs, defeated. "Fine. Ron's become obsessed with one of the Greengrass sisters. He needed an introduction because evidently the sisters don't just _meet _wizards like normal witches, it's all very pureblood and formal." He rolls his eyes. "Anyway. Instead of moving on, like he should have, Ron's become determined to talk to her, to date, court, or whatever nonsense they do in those circles."

Hermione grimaces. "We are in the twenty-first century, aren't we?"

Harry snorts. "Not this side of the Leaky wall, apparently. And definitely not in those families. Anyway, Ron had to have someone with some clout recommend their _acquaintance_, because no one takes the Weasleys seriously, not even with the Orders of Merlin, the whole right-side-of-the-war thing, and the Wizengamot seat. They're still considered a little bit of riff-raff."

Hermione groans. "I see where this is going."

Harry nods, looks at her closely. "I thought you would. Are you okay with this?"

"I'm fine," Hermione says, mildly surprised by this fact. If Ron wants to marry into a family that makes him perform circus tricks to claim one of their vestal virgins, she finds she doesn't mind. Other than the Beings bill, of course. "Which one is it, then?"

Harry smiles, noticeably relieved. He straightens up in his chair. "Evidently the Greengrass family had a girl between Astoria and Daphne, one they didn't send to Hogwarts due to a nervous condition of some kind. Rumor has it she's a bit dim, almost a squib, but very beautiful."

There's a silence, before Hermione loses it, and Harry's eyes widen almost comically, for a man who defeated Voldemort. Hermione tries, she does, but she just can't help her nearly hysterical laughter.

*/*/*

Hermione leaves when Ginny floos home, after fielding Harry's concerns about the vampires, and how they would react to the new Beings measure. She doesn't tell Harry why she started laughing at the news about Ron. She didn't think Harry would appreciate her humor.

She'd laughed because it was just too _perfect_. It wasn't something anyone else would get, Hermione thought, at least not without questioning her mental stability, but to her, what Ron had done to the vampires had pretty much illustrated her entire adult life in the Wizarding World. Once again, Ron was out looking for sex, and she was the one getting blamed.

Plus, he was going to be brothers-in-law with Malfoy.

Anyway, Harry's worry is ironic in the face of her concerns about the Volturi, so she brushes him off. "I'll let you know if I feel threatened," she promises finally.

"Good," Harry says. He embraces her briefly at the door. "Things may not have worked out with you and Ron, but you're still one of my best friends, Hermione."

Hermione clasps Harry around the waist, then releases him. "I know." When the door closes, her smile falls and Hermione feels … tired. Wrung out from the inside. She and Harry have so much history and they're so close, but there's no denying that he's pulling away. What Ginny had said had hurt, but it had also been true. It's only natural. Logical.

Still, Hermione can't help but reflect on the fact that it hurts.

*/*/*

When she gets home, Hermione's flat is filled with hateful owl post. Again. Hermione stays up at all hours replying to the vampires, telling them she didn't author the bill, that she was in Italy at the time. She explains that she didn't support it. She seriously doubts her words make one iota of difference .

Still, she has to try. Doesn't she?

In the meantime, Hermione strengthens her wards as much as is practical. Still, if a vampire is determined to kill her, she knows, she'll likely end up dead eventually.

She looks out her window into the street below, pocked by circles of light holding back the darkness. Anything could be in the shadows, really.

She looks away. It's not as if any Muggles could see her up where she is, anyway.

_Is it Muggles you're worried about? Or vampires?_

Hermione piles the letters to which she's replied on her desk and stares at them. If only she could speak to a vampire about what happened on her trip. It's certain that they all must know of the Volturi, based on what Aro said. Unfortunately, now that the Beings measure has gone through, it's become nearly impossible.

She makes herself a cup of hot chocolate and looks through her journal. She's recorded everything that happened to her in Italy, all of it. She'd been so tempted to tell Harry, but she knows him too well. Even if he did agree not to tell Ginny, he'd insist she tell Kingsley.

And what then? Vampire hunts? Hermione doesn't think she can take any more of her kind's bigotry. Not even when the vampires in question deserve it.

She sighs and closes the book. As Hermione is just thinking of going to bed—finally—there's another tapping on the window.

No doubt it's more of the same. At least this one isn't a howler. The bird pecks Hermione's fingers as she tugs off the letter. It's a Muggle envelope, which is unusual.

Hermione unfolds the expensive paper and reads it in surprise.

_Miss Granger,_

_One of my kind, a friend, read me your reply to his rather harsh (and admittedly toxic, he sends his apologies about the poison) critique of the new regulations regarding vampires, and of you personally. It was a surprise that you replied, a pleasant one. Considering that, and my knowledge of your work with the Department that seeks to now expel us, I was inclined to vouch for you—conditionally. _

_You may recall me from Hogwarts, where I first made your acquaintance. At that time, you struck me as a broad-minded young woman, one that was harboring little prejudice, perhaps because you had come to Hogwarts from outside the Wizarding World. Other than my friends the Lovegoods, I have seldom met wizards or witches who would speak to one of my kind without either fear or condescension. _

_That impression was called into question by recent events. However, I have given the matter some thought. I dislike snap judgments, as they are so often applied to me. I am also aware that you have many enemies in the Ministry that would seek to discredit you. Additionally, my friend Miss Luna Lovegood assures me that you were not involved in this heinous measure. I know Luna very well, as I have been associated with her entire family for many years. I trust her as I do none other of your kind._

_In light of all of these things, I would like to meet with you to hear your version of events. If I am satisfied by your account, I will pass along word to my fellows that they should focus their … efforts … toward opposing this provocation on those who more properly deserve it. _

_I will be at the coffee shop mentioned below at eight in the evening tomorrow. For obvious reasons, I don't wish to meet in Wizarding territory. If I see anyone out of place, I will be gone, and you can consider me another one of your most numerous enemies._

_I find myself hopeful for our meeting._

_Sincerely,_

_Sanguini B._

*/*/*

Hermione stares at the letter, dumbfounded. Her mind whirls. If she goes to meet Sanguini alone, she's opening herself up for being kidnapped or worse. If she goes with wizards, then she might never get the chance she wants to clear her reputation.

The risk is high, but so is the reward. Hermione works the corner of the letter with her fingers, indecisive.

_You should go. He might tell you about the Volturi._

The owl pecks at her hand, reminding Hermione that it's waiting on a reply, and she sighs. It's a tempting prospect, and she knows it's foolish to take his bait.

_When did I become so reckless and secretive? _ Hermione wonders, already knowing the answer. But there's no point in berating herself for foolishness, really, is there? The whole thing is already a foregone conclusion.

She already knows that she'll do it.

*/*/*

**A/N: **I have no idea why I gave Sanguini an initial, I just did. *shrug* Thanks to everyone who has followed / favorited / reviewed—I really appreciate it! :)


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